GATE: Thus War Stays Constant
by AssassinMeed
Summary: For thousand of years mankind has shed blood across seas and continents. Even after near destruction the human race continues to find methods and reasons to shed its own blood. They say the wasteland teaches you only two true lessons; of blood and war. The world is once again flipped when the GATE sudden appears. But there's one lesson we all know. War. War never changes.


**Disclaimer: I do not own the Fallout series or the GATE manga or anime. If I did I would be so happy...**

The light of a small fire danced throughout my small campsite, its flames flew off and dissipated into that cold night sky, allowing a quiet crackle of splitting wood to ring throughout an otherwise quiet and bare Mojave Desert.

My equipment was set standing on an old, run down pre-war vehicle at my side. I didn't carry much around with me when I went on my excursions into the outskirts of Mojave Desert. But it was a dangerous place, filled to the brim with mutated creatures many people wouldn't dare meet face to face… well people other than me that was.

Every piece of equipment that sat along in my campsite held its own personal story. Each had a name, and each worked alongside me longer than any other weapon I've ever held in my old hands.

An old and worn looking lever action hunting shotgun sat on the side of the abandoned car. When I obtained it, it had already a name, Dinner Bell, a weapon I killed scores of mutated creatures of the west to get. It's stood, loaded and ready, for any uses whenever the time came, its barrel ever vigilant to ward off any would be offences.

My torn, and tattered leather backpack sat to my left. It wasn't one of House's new brand new products he ships over to NCR and East Coast cities for an extra cap or two. It was a regular old backpack that I've kept ever since my days as a courier in The Mojave Express ended with a shot to the head. All that was held in it were bundles ammunition, caps, and a spare combat knife that would come out if the machete strapped over my combat boots ever decided to snap (Which it never did).

I carried a heavily modified .357 revolver I nicknamed 'Lucky' strapped to the side of my dark brown duster. Its handle was colored pure white with the symbol of a four leaf clover signed on both side of the gun. Dried blood covered small areas beneath the handle, most likely from the amount of people I've clubbed to death in close combat situations. The chamber and barrel was coated in a fading black paint with gold linings swimming along the chamber of the weapon to the end of the barrel. The name, 'Lucky' was written along the side of the barrel, with a shining gold border running around it in a rectangular shape.

An old motorcycle stood across from me on the other side of my little camp fire. It had once belonged to an old friend that went by the name, 'The lone Wanderer'. The bike was probably over 200 years old, its grey color showed signs of previous black paint remaining in small pockets on the vehicle but what caught eyes the most were the words 'Lone Wanderer' written on the side with bright yellow paint. I had once contemplated removing the name from the bike, but **quickly** got rid of the thought. Names always hold a meaning, even if it wasn't my own.

I didn't really have a name. That name was buried when I was shot in the head by a man named Benny. Names, in one way or another hold a great deal of power and meaning power. Names are a representation of you as a person, the kind of person you really are. The name I went by before was the title of a man too weak to even defend himself against some wannabe mobster with a flashy gun. I never really picked a new one after that, I just choose to go by what I knew I was, a Courier- of what is up to your own interpretation.

I tilted my head along with my old cowboy hat up towards the pitch black, night sky. Ever since the bombs went off, the skies have been covered with with a thin layer of dust, thick enough to kill the stars in the heavens themselves. Only the moon remained to illuminate the clouds floating, gently and peacefully across its darkened background.

The moon was full tonight, and I could feel a sense of tranquility for the first time in decades run throughout my system. It has been 30 years since the Second Battle of Hoover Dam, 30 years since I allowed Mr. House to take control of New Vegas, 30 years since my children were small enough to hold in my hands and 30 years since I've had a moment to myself.

I was probably in my late sixties last I could recall. I've spent 30 years helping Mr. House set up connections (and secret control) in territories from the NCR to the Boston Commonwealth. In those 30 years I've helped build trust between Mr. House and the Eastern Brotherhood of Steel, and by extension opening trades and communication with many East coast Communities and groups; groups like the Minutemen, the Railway, multiple active vaults, and a dozen large settlements, and cities that have grown over the years.

Years have passed and I could feel my body starting to ache and grow sore. My hair had already turned a full shade of grey, and all of my sense were telling me to give the torch over to one of my twin sons, Michael and Lucifer.

I had named them after the first angels Gods had made when creating heaven (Granted my Lucifer never decided to start some kind of holy civil war). I wanted them to know that I was going to create a better world that they could grow up in, a better world than what I and many others got. I wanted them to know that the life they got was a life worth living, and that's what I tried my hardest to create. With Mr. House's political prowess, and our careful plans to rally every factions in the post-war America against a common enemy (The Legion), the world started to finally start to spin again for the first time since the Great War nearly wiped out all life as mankind knew it.

Oh don't get me wrong, there is still violence. Small unruly groups are still causing havoc in unclaimed territory. But if the wasteland has taught me anything, it's that no matter how hard you try, not matter how hard you try and fix everything, it's that violence is always inevitable.

Nearly lost in my thoughts I nearly lost sight of a dozen silhouettes creeping from behind, 23 figures cloaked in darkness stood hardly a few dozen feet away from me, each possibly armed.

Damn it, my senses must be getting quite rusty in these old years if this many men were able to sneak up on me like this.

In a sudden motion Dinner Bell took its claim into both of my hands, targeting the possible threats slowly approaching. Changing my footing to be place beside my small campfire, I readied to stomp it out to grant me a cloak of darkness in the ensuing nightfall.

The men in question stepped out of the shadows and withdrew what strangely seemed to be a combination of spears, wooden shields and swords, weaponry the legion mainly equip their soldiers with… But not only were these guys armed like the legion, they wore armor and clothing suspiciously close to what The Legion has as well. Each and every one of them bore what looked to be ancient roman gladiator gear, without a hint of Kevlar anywhere on their body. Hummmm, if these guys were planning on roleplaying, at least The Legion had the intelligence to account for something as simple as bullets.

Suddenly coming to a halt, the men encompassed me in a turtle-like formation, using their spears to hold me in their cute little circle. I stood there without saying a word, amused to see where this was going. A heavily armored man who wore a bright red cape stepped out from their ranks, standing with a sword and shield ready, and a smug smirk stuck to his face like glue.

Really? Why was The Legion wannabe acting so damn smug? He and his men were wearing armor so weak, your typical raider could probably be found with much more suitable gear! And what was the point of those wooden shields these men were carrying around, they must know that I am holding a weapon that could literally rip through metal solid sheets of metal, a piece of wood probably isn't going to stop that.

I probably would be frightened of these guys and the position they had me in if not for the fact that I've been here nearly a dozen times before… and at least they had the smarts to bring at least one firearm for goodness sake!

After a short pause the man in the red cape started to - strangely enough - speak Latin. Granted, I've never been good at Latin, I'd learnt a bit from Mr. House and an old friend of mines, Arcade Gannon, but I was never really that great with the tongue. Sure I could listen and hear what they were saying well enough, but when it came to actually talking I might as well start speaking gibberish.

"Savage, come back with us or face the holy wrath of the Empire."

Empire? What the heck was the Empire, some new wannabe faction trying to gain a fast momentum? No, taking a closer look at their armor, it would seem that the metal was newly minted, not some gear you'd normally find in the Mojave Desert or anywhere else in the entire North American wasteland for that matter. What this "Empire" was, it was a complete enigma in the wasteland as a whole.

Leveling Dinner Bell directly at the man in the red cape, he showed no hint of fear in his eyes and from what I could tell, he meant it. So either this man was just that cocky or he had no idea the trouble he was in. Well either way, this man was going to die, and an empty head was definitely not going to stop that.

A single loud shot was fired, the fire went out, and the dogs of war were slipped loss from that moment onwards. White grains of sand were painted in blood, and screams were heard throughout that cold empty night.

There are two lessons life in the wasteland will teach you, and I've have grown to respect them.

The first was a lesson I've learnt many times, too many times. Those that are willing to shed blood must know what color it is first. It's the rush of the kill, the adrenaline flowing throughout your very veins and you just want more. To know the color of blood is to know what it means to shed it; its weight, its value, its meaning to the dead.

The second was a lesson that I've only recently learned. After my years of experience, my years of naiveties, believing that I can hold back a dam of blood, only recently have I learned this lesson. It's the lesson that war is a constant, which so long as there is life, there is war.

War is all I've ever known. I've held my two sons in my hands, I've seen life and all of its beauty, but it always came back to war. I suppose my tired bones could handle just one more.

War. War never changes.

 **Well, I've finally done it! I've finally written my first fanfiction! I hope you enjoyed it, and please tell me about any spelling or grammar errors I may have because I'm sure their there.**

 **Till next time!**


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